Yet Hamilton was after all only planning an entertainment.  When he had captured the control of Coal and Ore he would stand within grasping distance of his ideal of one-man power.  He would have rocked the temple of money and snatched out of Malone’s teeth Consolidated’s marrow bone.  That would be a time for celebration.  It would be vastly amusing to shake the hands of the vanquished and see them bite back the curses that were welling up from their hearts.  While seeming only the host he would in reality be the victor—­exacting tribute.

That his victory depended on undertakings yet to be accomplished and beset with gigantic hazards did not disquiet him.  Over him shone his Star!

His revery snapped like a punctured balloon at the sound of the door-bell and when Harrow ushered in his father, Hamilton rose with a smile of welcome on his lips.

The elder Burton entered with a heightened flush on his full cheeks and the son for just an instant studied him with a shrewd appraisement.  A man who has, by the custom of decades, spent each day from sunrise to sunset at hard labor cannot find himself idle without seeking an outlet of some description.

If Tom Burton were to decay here in inactivity, he might as well decay genially, taking his pleasure by the way.  He was doing it.  Like a gentleman and an officer he tippled the evenings out.  Rarely was he drunk beyond a genteel limitation—­and after an advanced hour he was rarely less so.  In slow and mellow fashion he was ripening into slothful and comfortable atrophy.  His well-shaven face was beginning to reveal those small discolored spots that are the subtle brands of Bacchus.  Under the eyes that had once been like the eyes of a hawk, small and puffy sacks were discernible.

“Well, damn it,” Hamilton exculpated to himself, “it was a long time before he had any fun.”  Then aloud he inquired, “Whose coffers did you fill this evening?”

Tom Burton straightened up a shade pompously.

“I think my game is—­er—­on a par with that of others—­but luck can hardly be controlled.”

“The question is,” suggested the son, “whether you enjoyed yourself.”

“Reasonably well, thank you.”  The elder man looked about the room and spoke complainingly.  “I don’t see any whiskey and soda about.  Will you please ring for some, Hamilton?  I’m thirsty.”

“It’s there on the side-table.”  Hamilton followed the other with his eyes and noted the greedy unsteadiness of the fingers that grasped the decanter.

“Do you think you need that drink, father?” he inquired.

The elder man glanced up while the liquor spilled out of the poised bottle—­and missed the glass.  “Why not?” he demanded.  “It’s about time for a nightcap.  I haven’t had anything to speak of this evening.”

Hamilton nodded with a shrug, but his brows drew themselves in a pained wrinkle.  He would not willingly admit doubt of his father’s truthfulness, yet the statement lacked all quality of conviction.